


Glass

by And_all_the_other_buns



Category: Cain Saga and Godchild
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28623621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/And_all_the_other_buns/pseuds/And_all_the_other_buns
Summary: Jezabel's violent fits are getting better, mostly.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas, Ivy <3

Jezabel processed the sound of the shattering glass long before he realized what had caused it, and long before the pain hit him. When it did, though, he quickly followed the sound with his own cry, then gasped as he brought his left hand to his chest. Hot blood seeped through his fingers and quickly soaked through his waistcoat, shirt and vest, becoming a damp and sticky mass against his skin. *Damn it.* He looked around for a rag or length of fabric to wind around his cuts, finally settleing on the canvas apron he should have been wearing this whole time but hadn't seen the point in. And look! What good would the extra layer have done against the broken jar in his hand and the blood ruining his clothes? Absolutely nothing, that's what. 

"Wonder which of them will give me a greater hell over this," he thought bitterly as he made his way to his trough sink and opened the pipes. He couldn't remember just now what was in that jar but knowing both his and Cain's persuasions, probably nothing good. Anything from pickled organs to nightshade or a heinous inbreeding of them both- his memory often failed him these days. 

With a twist of the tap he coaxed the pipes to give him cold water, braced himself, and slid his left hand under the trickle; water pressure in the basement of the Hargreaves estate was not the best, but he was grateful for that right now, as just this much against his torn skin was an agony, not to mention the glass shards still embedded in his flesh. Fine. It was...fine. another day, another accident, another skeptical look from Uncle Neil, another scolding from his two handlers. 

Well. It would at the very least be fun to see which one took the first bite out of the other. Having Cain and Cassian both under the same grand roof was the source of most of Jezabel's entertainment these days.

With a sigh, sure that he had rinsed away what he could of the chemical spill (God help whatever was coursing through his bloodstream by now) Jezabel sat down at a far table by a high casement window and began to dig through his bag. He had sutured himself up more times than he could count since about the age of 14, and here he was, 32 and an expert. This was nothing. He unloaded the silk, the needles, the tiny silver scissors, linen wrappings, tweezers, forceps. A perfect lineup, this would be fine. *Fine.*

God his hand hurt. 

Just before he closed his bag back up, Jezabel caught sight of a little brown bottle; his pills, the couple that Cassian allowed him to have at a time, scared he might overdose on a whim or mix the opium and heroin with too much alcohol in a careless moment and just...not wake up. Like Jezabel couldn't send himself to sleep in any manner of ways if he wanted to. And he didn't want to. Not actively. Not for months. And he was, quietly, very proud of this. Some days it was a triumph for Jezabel to wake, rise, and dress, both for his poor physical health and the way his demons wanted to sink their claws into his mind and never let go- yes. A few stable months was a blessing indeed. And in a way, it was his own precious, treasured secret, a glittering rock plucked from the river and kept in his pocket.

...one now, he thought, trying to open the bottle one handed. One now, and one after, and he could rest easily for the day.

...it was very difficult to open this bottle one handed. He wedged it against his chest, against his left forearm, but even that amount of pressure traveled right down to his hand, making it throb. As he finally managed to pop the top of the bottle though, it jarred his whole upper body, sending the bottle flying as he cried out sharply. Before he knew it, Jezabel was on his knees, bent over his hand, cradleing it protectively. Silently as tears burned his eyes he prayed that nobody heard that, that they would leave him alone and not come down-

The footsteps thundering down the wooden stairs to his lab told him otherwise, two sets of them, one in dress shoes and one in boots. Just his luck, that they had both been near enough, god damn it. 

"Disraeli what the fuck did you do?"

"Jezabel, fuck, man, you alright?"

Cain and Cassian were neither the most kind and gentle of men, and that didn't change just because he's done something stupid. In fact Cassian, who had at least called him by his first name, became only more incensed to see Jezabel covered in blood, though through his clouded Vision Jezabel was sure he saw his lover pale slightly. 

"Fuck did you do?!"

"Medical science."

"Bullshit, what did you do."

"Cut myself."

"On purpose?" Asked Cain, and Jezabel rolled his eyes to Heaven. 

"/No/." he was pretty sure it wasn't on purpose. He didn't recall any drive to experience pain tonight, even if he'd been thinking of father again (he was always thinking of father, even if he didn't realize it.) No, all he remembered was a flash of rage, a frightened whimper, then crash, broken glass, blood, this lovely situation. 

Whether they believed him or not was irelevalent. A purposeful injury and an accidental injury were pathologically identicle and both took the same treatment. 

Cassian on one side, Cain on the other, they seemed to think it would take both of them to haul his thin frame to his feet and back to his chair, but considering his growing lethargy, he didn't fight them. In fact he was rather grateful to be back in his seat, and took a few deep, stabilizing breaths to center himself; his hand still hurt like an absolute hellish torture and seemed to be only growing worse. He wanted to ask for the pills he'd dropped but he doubted they would be found. He did not keep the...most tidy little lab.

Cassian sat down catacorner to him, and gently took his left hand and drew it close.

"...This one right here is deep," Cassian sighed, peering at the sharpest bit of glass embedded in the soft spot beneath Lestat's thumb. "And this one on the side...but most of these are shallow, Jezabel. I'll get you patched up just fine. Idiot."

Jezabel said nothing, knowing he could patch himself up just fine, even one handed. The only issue would be tying off the sutures...he supposed it would be nice to not have to face that struggle at least, and Cassian's stitching was...adequate. So he nodded his consent, and watched with sealed lips but watchful eyes as Cassian took careful stock of every sliver of glass.

Cain, meanwhile, returned to this table with a soft, worn, and clean linen towel upon which he rested his tired arm, and an oil lamp to provide the much needed extra light. Ah, and one other thing-

"Here's two pills, and water," said his brother, foisting both as him without much care at all, but Jezabel knee better. He and Cain could read each other disturbingly well these days, after so many years sharing room and board. Their shakes, their haunted eyes, their nightmares; the language of broken children. 

Of course Jezabel wasn't going to argue this in the least. If he was being offered a way to numb his pain, of course he was going to take it. But he didn't need the water; instead he just knocked both pills straight back, swallowed them dry. The only liquid he would want right now was wine, or bourbon. He really liked how bourbon played with these pills. 

Next to him, Cassian was cradling his hand with the deepest tenderness. There was a patience in his touch that wasn't there in his face, and Jezabel felt the slightest prickling of guilt with that. Slightest. Those dark eyes were tired, and worried, and wondering *what was it this time, Jezabel?* And Jezabel could provide no answer. How could he know why he had fits? He was crazy, they all knew that. Or at least that's what he thought of it. Nobody used that word around him, not even uncle Neil, who simply referred to his bad days as *Jezabel finds a pressing need to be restful right now.* And that was fine. That was almost...kind in a way, a merciful reaction to those moments where Jezabel finds himself so caught in a memory that it feels real again, and he breaks his plates or pounds his fists against the wall or decides the idea of eating is too much to handle for a week or so. 

On those days, Jezabel is tired, and the rest is welcome. 

"Sorry," he offered, to which Cassian just shrugged. Of all the emotions swirling on his face, Jezabel could see no judgement. 

As the minutes passed, Jezabel felt himself begin to grow foggy as the painkillers finally kicked in. An injection might have worked faster but he didn't trust either of them to not acctidently kill him with an embolism.

As his vision free a little blurry, Cain took his free hand, the same moment that Cassian began to pluck at the glass 

Jezabel hissed, wanting to recoil, but Cassian held his arm steady.

"I'm sorry," he whispered kindly, peering at Jezabel through his sweat dampened silver hair. "I'll wait another minute then."

He waited three. When he began to move the glass shards this time, Jezabel could still feel it, but the effect was lessened. The pills helped him not mind the pain so much, and Cassian knee to start with the smallest slivers...so pretty, these bits of crystal covered in a thin sheen of red blood. Diamonds and rubies and gems, all the monetary riches Jezabel could have hoped for as he grew up and not a single thing of any actual value. Not since he was 11, not since-

He hissed as Casians grip slipped on a larger piece, and it stung, but he didn't try to draw away again. He thought of the great, beautiful mastiff a mile down the road, who had a barb caught in his paw, and how Jezabel wished the beautiful boy could just understand that Jezabel wanted to help him. *Can't you just think of yourself like that?* Cassian sometimes asked, as though Jezabel deserved the same mercy as an animal. 

The last piece was finally extracted, and Cain spoke to him about the extension they we're adding to the barn come spring, for goats, distracting Jezabel from the burn of the antiseptic, but it didn't help much. He whined, breathless, and found himself pressing his face to the side, into Cain's neck. That bastard, how dare he trick Jezabel into such touch...yet he didn't pull away. Too tired to pull away, too dizzy. Did he take those pills on an empty stomach? No, he had bread and butter and jam for breakfast, and tea and milk. He ate, real food even. Maybe he'd lost more blood than he thought. Maybe it was because he hasn't taken any in almost a month, and had lost his tolerance. Who knew? Not him. But by the time Cassian had begun to stitch his wounds, Jezabel was aware of nothing but the smell of cain's soap and laundry and the fel of his hand rubbing the back of his neck. Nothing more, no pain of the needle or tug of the thread. Only blissful darkness and quiet sleep.


End file.
